Category Archives: Confessions.

You know what my husband is really good at? (Don’t be a perv.) I mean, like, he really excels at this. (Seriously, stop being a perv.) He’s really good at falling asleep. He’s like a high-functioning narcoleptic. Within mere seconds of turning out his light, the man is snoring. Now, me? I have to take a pill, wait an hour (during which time I read until my eyelids become heavy), then turn off the light and lay there. And lay there. And lay there. And I think about all of the things that I should have done, need to do, could have done better, things I said, things I shouldn’t have said, things I should have said better—and then I worry about not being able to fall asleep. And eventually, sleep comes.

Some people can just, like, do things. I have a friend from high school who literally decided to become a sculptor and became one. And he’s no chump sculptor—he’s extremely good. Guitar? No problem. He just went out, bought a guitar and taught himself. I went out and bought a guitar (purple, electric, in honor of Prince), and while I can play Horse With No Name like a motherfucker, I gave it up, because it hurt my finger pads.

I don’t like things that hurt.

My mother is extremely skilled at not trusting the post office. This is one of those things that, over the years, she has perfected, and really honed her skills at. At first, she would mail something and just trust that it would arrive. And then . . . I’m not sure, but I have to assume that one day that thing that was supposed to arrive never did. And now she has PTSD. Over the years, it has morphed from casual calls (“Honey, I sent you something today. Next time we talk, will you let me know if you got it?”) to an extreme tactical operation (“I am sending you a package. I will let you know when it is on its way. The minute it arrives, please release the flock of messenger pigeons that will confirm its arrival, text me, call me, and also send a vial of your blood so that I know it’s really you. Make sure you send it FedEx.”). She’s amazing at a lot of other things, too. Like suddenly she’s a watercolor artist—and she’s becoming too good for us, she’s so talented! But this post office thing? She’s wicked good at that.

Then there’s Rowan. He can spell better than a Harvard graduate. He’s all over it. No word is too hard. He’s also really good at protecting the “girls’ area” in the playground at his school from the boys during recess. (Never mind that he himself is a boy, and so by all rights should also be excluded from the girls’ area.) I can see why he relishes that role. He gets to be near a crowd of girls and allow them their space while at the same time being a part of it. Genius. Oh, and he gets to act like a dragon while he’s doing it, so it’s a win-win.

Luca is really good at talking about poop.

Then, alas, there is me. I’ve spent the last year searching for that thing that I can be really good at. It’s been a year of learning and trying a completely new role professionally, and for most of it, it’s been, er . . . really uncomfortable (Oh! And super fun!). Recently, when a friend asked how I was, I replied, ominously, “different.” And it’s the truest response that I could have given at the time. For the last five months, I have been working full time at a place I love, with people I care about, doing work that has been challenging, but . . . not me. And while I have been hyper-aware of it not being me, I have been judging myself and trying to make it work, trying to adapt. I’ve been waiting to get used to a 50-hour-a-week office job, used to computer work and to doing things that I simply don’t know how to do. And while I am trying to make that work, I’ve been wondering, what is wrong with me that this is so hard? Why can’t I adapt? Why can’t I become this other person? Why can’t I manage stress better? When all along, I should have been asking myself, what is it about me that makes me unable to accept who I am?

Sure, I’m sensitive. I move slowly and need time to process things. I don’t like stress. And yes, I’m not a traditional person that is comfortable with a more traditional profession. I want to connect, and take time with people. I want to engage and offer people a different way of being in the world. I’m comfortable with that. I’m good at that. It’s important to me that the time I spend away from my family is of equal value to the time I spend with my family. And then, with the force of the proverbial smack on the forehead, I realized (yeah, yeah, I’m slow) that I’ve had it all along. That the career I thought I should leave was the career that was a perfect fit for me.

Dear SIPNEL.

So, now, I surrender. I know who I am. I know what I love and value. I know what I’m good at. I know that, no matter what, at the end of the day, I want to feel satisfied, and I want to feel peaceful. It doesn’t matter what other people want me to be, or what I assume other people value and expect of me. None of that matters. None of that should lead me. And truly, genuinely, I know that I can do anything. I just choose to return to my life as a massage therapist, a mother, a writer, a friend, and a colleague.

Share this:

Like this:

Here’s something about me you may not know: I worry a lot. I’m a worrier. For example:

A few years ago I saw how a family took a wrong turn on a vacation in Oregon and ended up trapped in their car in a snow storm. They ran out of food and water and were so cold that they tried burning the tires of their car for heat. And eventually, the father went out on foot to find help*. He died of hypothermia, I believe. That story had a huge impact on me and is the reason that I wear edible and wood jewelry. Seriously. If there are seeds or beans in the bead shop? I buy that mess, string it and wear it every day. Just in case. And at times I wonder if perhaps the seed beads have been treated in some way, or lacquered, but then I realize that if worse comes to worse, I can soak them in my saliva, break them down and survive on the inside part. The wood I can burn for warmth.

Years ago, when I was a teen, I was walking into a shop and there was a woman standing by the door holding on to an empty plastic bag. In a split second, I imagined her taking the bag, shoving it over my head and suffocating me, so I ran into the store. She was gone when I came back out. And yes, I kept peeking until she was gone.

A couple of weeks ago, while I was with the boys at Buffalo Exchange, a girl came up to me and asked me where I had purchased my necklace. I told her that I had made it, and she asked if she could buy one from me. Since I have nothing but time**, I told her I would, and then silently cursed her for the next two days until I found the time to make it. She came to where I work to pick it up, and out of her back pocket she pulled a squished, wrapped, handmade brownie and gave it to me. After she left, I threw it in the garbage, so as not to die from the poison that she obviously put in it, but my office mate took it back out and ate it. I watched for signs of distress in him for the rest of the day. He thought I was crazy.

I can’t stand it when my kids get Ranger Rick in the mail and it has a giant spider on the front, because I swear to SIPNEL I am afraid that spider will suddenly turn real and, and . . . what? Attack me? What the fuck do I think is going to happen? But really, I only touch the very edge of the magazine and then sort of throw it down and away from my body when we get into the house.

I’ve lived in Arizona for 16 years now, and have still never been to the Grand Canyon. It’s one of those things that I usually hate admitting to, because everyone says the exact same thing to me about it, and I get annoyed at the lack of originality. Yes, I know that I should, and I know that I should be ashamed that I haven’t. Why do I know? Because everybody keeps telling me. Seriously, someday I will tell someone that I have never been and they will say to me, “Cool! I think that’s great and perfectly acceptable!” But for now, I will tell you why I have never gone to stand on the very edge of a giant fucking hole in the earth. Years ago, my sister and I were visiting my uncle for “Family Weekend” at SUNY Geneseo while he was a student there. After our first night, he and his girlfriend took us for a beautiful hike, which ended at a popular picnic spot near a small lake. On one side of the lake was a large cliff, and on the other was the picnic spot. The top of the cliff was a “scenic stop” and there were people at the top, looking down at us. After a little while, we heard a scream, and looked up just in time to see a small child fall off the cliff.

No. I am not kidding.

We watched his body bounce off of every rock and every tree that he contacted the entire way down the cliff, until he reached the bottom, where he lay until the paramedics could hike in and carry him out. In the end, he was alright (my uncle was credited for being pretty heroic that day, and I distinctly remember him running across that lake to get to the child), but let me assure you that as a result of witnessing that? When I think about going to the Grand Canyon? All I want to do is vomit.

For some reason, whenever something frightens me, I get a sharp, shooting pain in my forehead. What’s that about? It’s weird.

We have a basement in the office building that I now work in, and it’s where the coffee pot is, so, let’s face it, I have to go into the basement a lot. But dude. It is pretty terrifying down there, especially if I am in said building completely alone. I got myself pretty worked up last week and convinced myself that even though the door to the building was locked, someone could have found a way in, and that I was going to be ambushed and raped (I know, I know, but it’s the truth!). So, I go into that basement for the love of coffee alone, and I have thought through my counter attack.

I’m convinced that one day a Palo Verde beetle will get into the house, climb in our bed, and touch me.

Lately, anytime my boss at my new job tells me that he needs to talk to me about something, I immediately begin to accept the fact that I’m about to be fired. OK. This one I blame on John.

But, you see what I’m trying to highlight here, right? I’m trying to highlight the crazy that lives inside me. And also, I would love to determine the cause of the shooting pain in the front of my head when something scares me, because it’s really weird. An added bonus would be to hear that I’m not actually crazy, and that many, many people experience the same thoughts. And if not, maybe don’t tell me.

Great. Something else to worry about.

*Don’t ever do that.

**Total sarcasm and resentment.

Share this:

Like this:

So, I’m sitting here, in front of my computer which may or may not be disgustingly dirty, and I may or may not be slightly tipsy from a margarita that I may or may not have put too much liquor in, and I’m listening to my husband be….well…fantastic. He’s been patiently paying attention to and listening to the kids for over an hour, which if added to the other couple of hours today that he’s done this is like, a lot of hours. Especially considering how much Rowan can talk. Seriously, if Rowan ever prefaces something to you with, “You know…” get comfy, y’all. Really fucking comfy.

Perhaps it’s because I am starting a full-time job tomorrow. One that has already consumed much of my time, albeit in a flurry of distracted, pieced-together, late night–early morning moments, hair-pullingly unorganized moments, but nonetheless, I will, for the first time since the kids were born, be leaving them in the care of, well, my husband. And I’m jealous.

In all fairness, John has been taking care of the kids a lot since they were born. He’s a hands-on parent, and genuine in his desire and interest in child-rearing and co-parenting. In fact, what happens tomorrow is something that he and I have been wanting to do for years. We’ve talked about that elusive job that would never turn up, allowing us to switch roles so that he could be with the kids, and bond with them the way I have. And TA-DA! Captain elusive job landed on my lap, and here we are: T minus 14 hours until we manage to reach a goal we never thought possible.

So why do I feel so shitty?

I don’t know, friends. I’m sitting here thinking that it’s not because of the job, but more because of the connection. Right now, in the other room, I can hear John shouting in a super-hero-announcer voice (seriously, there is a superhero-announcer-voice): “AH! Help! The SEA DRAGOOOOOOOOON!” and I think, “well, that’s it for me.” Because I will never, ever be a convincing enough super-hero announcer. And in the interest of keepin’ it real, I canassure you that I hate imaginary play. It’s so, like, fake.

And he’s so patient. And RIGHT! He’s right like, 98% of the time! He makes good decisions, and can answer the boys’ questions in a very succinct and not psychotic way, like I do! He’s loving, but firm and fun, too! Dear SIPNEL! I’ve married the perfect man! What was I thinking?

It seems really sudden to me, the change. And so I am frantic that it’s because I am working more. Will the boys only lean on me for comfort and softness? Can I still connect with them without annoying them? Why do I suddenly not know how to make them happy? I can hear the huff that will come in the next few years from Rowan. In fact, yesterday he actually said to me, “Oh, Mama. You bring nothing but trouble” when I accidentally broke his Lego car. And I swear to you, I felt us separating . . . and a part of me totally agreeing with him. I’m a total troublemaker.

I don’t want to be melodramatic, but I’m feeling inadequate as a mother after years of feeling pretty fucking adequate. Is it age? Natural distance? Gender? Or that John is just more awesome, and tolerant? Shouldn’t I be pleased to have a partner who is so loving with our kids? So interested? What the hell is wrong with me?

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’ll pass. Maybe the foundation that I laid is perfectly aligned with what John is providing them with now. Maybe I’m just over-analyzing it all (no shit, Sherlock), and I should just trust that we know what we are doing, and that things are alright. That my kids will grow up knowing that gender doesn’t define roles. That women can do anything, and that men can, too. Maybe John will rise up out of this an even more amazing man, and finally for the first time in his life stop thinking that a piano will fall on his head if things go well. And let’s face it: maybe, just maybe, I’m drunk.

Share this:

Like this:

Sometimes a girl’s just gotta write because a girl’s just gotta write. She’s got to do it for the people. And, let’s face it, she’s gotta do it for her own sanity. That’s why I started this blog, actually: to rescue my mental health from the brink. And it worked! I have complete mental health! Squeaky clean! And yet, I still enjoy the same sort of cleansing feeling that I experienced in the first year of writing, although, truth be told, things have changed.

I’ve become pretty busy, in case you didn’t notice. So busy in fact, that I now go weeks between posts. I have to force myself to sit here and write, because just like a junkie falls at the feet of their addiction, this is mine, and I am falling at the feet of it, because I know I will feel better after. In the past, I would write when I felt that my children were stealing my soul, or perhaps that they were tiny little terrorists (Al-kid-a?) sent to wake me up just as I had entered REM.

But see, things have changed: I don’t have a baby. At my house, I have full-fledged humans. They say things like, “Mama! Luca just showed me his butt!” or, “If you don’t let me play Angry Birds on your phone I am going to tear this house to pieces!” Basically, it’s like The Godfather at my house. But it’s better. Better than what, you may ask? Better than having a baby.

Stupid babies.

Now, before I continue, I must say that it’s remotely possible that I am suffering from PTSD. Or, PTIDSFFFYSD (post-traumatic I-didn’t-sleep-for-four-fucking-years stress disorder) and because of this, my opinion may be skewed. That said, I think I am right on the money when I say that having a baby in the house? One that belongs to you? And doesn’t do much of anything except manage to shoot their poop so far across the room that it hits the wall? Well, it’s really freaking hard.

I look back on myself as a mother to my first child, and I cringe. I was so far out of my depth, and at the same time I was so convinced that it was what I wanted: motherhood. So convinced that it came as a devastating shock to me that I was miserable as a new mother. You know, I don’t think miserable is the right word for it. I think it was more that I was paralyzed. To the, er, three people who came over to my house that year, I am sure I appeared to be swirling down the drain of stay-at-home motherhood. I never went anywhere with Rowan that wasn’t the park down the street. We spent so much time at the house that I could feel myself understanding and relating to people with Agoraphobia. And at the same time, I began to realize that I had absolutely no support system.

My bad.

None of my friends had kids, and we lived 40 minutes away from family. I had no babysitter, and a husband that worked 40-50 hours a week. I was so freaking lonely that, well, I went a little crazy. Joining a moms’ group helped me a bit, but at the same time it left me feeling oddly disconnected from myself. I met so many nice women, but it brought me further and further away from my sense of self as a human, with an identity apart from being a mother. The discussions about kids, diapers, breasts, poop . . . and the almost automatic discussions that highlighted our kids and what milestones they had reached, well, as nice as they were to have, they terrified me. I felt trapped in a role that I didn’t want to embody completely, but it seemed expected of me. So, I clung to the women who laughed when I said things that were a bit outrageous (who, me?) or who laughed readily at themselves—and me. I clung to the women who dared to talk about books, music, politics, and movies or who generally felt as I did. And I started cheating on the moms’ group.

And now I see it all so clearly. I suppose that as more time passes, I will see it clearer still. When I hear about new moms struggling, I get it. I get it so hard. I want to go to their homes, strap the kid to them, open the door, push them out, and lock the door behind them. I want to tell them how there really are other people who can watch their children for a few hours—and that these people really want to keep the child alive, so, no worries. I want to tell them that even though it feels strange at first to go from caring for a child all day to having sex with your husband, give it a go. Really. And that asking for help is, well, hard. It’s really hard. But it’s a step in a healthy direction. I want to tell them to tell the truth to other women. If being a mom is hard for you, or not what you expected? It’s ok to tell people your truth. You aren’t admitting anything—because admitting something means that you feel you are doing something wrong. And you aren’t. Women who find motherhood easy or simple are medicated. I bet you, like, five bucks.

I want to tell new mothers so many things, but worry that I will sound like a tool. I want them to know how it gets better, easier, transformative, fun, hysterical, interesting, challenging, inspiring, emotional, loving, mystifying and amazing. When it’s hard, it pales in comparison to what you’ve already made it through. I want to tell them to call me, but let’s face it, I’m busy. But for me, the one thing that I want to tell them, because it worked for me?

Like this:

I used to think I was fat. Mind you, I was 14 when I most adamantly thought this, but still. I was a child. I thought it and felt it and wholeheartedly believed it. I shopped at Lane Bryant, and when Sinead O’Connor came on the scene with her oversized dresses, I felt I had found an appropriate style to match my believed girth.

In high school, when I was dating the dickiest dick of all the dicks, I spent the entire relationship being systematically brainwashed by him. It was your classic verbal abuse, and now, with the perspective of over 20 years, it was also the fact that he was just a total douche bag. Obviously, he did nothing for my self esteem. Well, actually he did: he crumbled it up and set it on fire, but I’ve been to therapy and come out the other side, so he can suck it.

Which leads me to my years in therapy, from my late teens into my early 20’s. I went to therapy. I got angry and talked about it. I’m pretty sure there was wailing and thrashing about. I talked about all of the reasons I wanted to swallow a bottle of pills. I burned letters from the dickiest dick of all the dicks, and in the end, I got strong. Strong enough to venture out, therapy free, and enter my life on steady (albeit, not perfect) footing.

And then I went through a stage where I was constantly surrounding myself with white light and positive affirmations, so that I stopped using the word fat at all, deeming it a “bad” word, right up there with hate. I burned sage to clear the negative energy and I read Creative Visualization, by Shakti Gaiwan, approximately 1.7 million times. I worked so hard for years to change the way I thought about my body. It took active and total conscious thought, and it took backslides into pints of Ben and Jerry’s and forgiveness the next day, but I accomplished my goal. I was able to turn those negative thoughts into acceptance, and even appreciation for my physical self. (I say physical self because, let’s face it, I don’t suffer from a fragile ego when it comes to my personality.)

And then. Years later, I had sex with my husband, on purpose, while ovulating, and BLAMMO. Babies. Then, I had sex with my husband again, on purpose, while ovulating one year after the first BLAMMO. Not to brag, but I’m the pregnant lady that got through both pregnancies without a single stretch mark. Go ahead, give it to me, I can take it. Just to make you want to scratch my eyes out even more, I have to admit that after my first baby, I got wicked skinny. I swear to GOD that breastfeeding is the best weight loss plan on the planet, and if it wasn’t creepy, I would breastfeed someone until I died. But see? It doesn’t matter anymore whether or not I got stretch marks or wicked skinny, because what I did get is basically a skin flap. A fairly large skin flap, or as my husband likes to say, Dunlap’s disease, because my stomach done lapsed over my belt.

I’ve had two C-sections, but it was the second that did me in. Things got, and stayed, squishy and malleable. But because I’d had surgery and my nerve endings were sliced, I have no feeling in my lower abdomen anymore. And it’s like, as Luca so kindly pointed out to me, having, well, a whole other boob.

“Mama? Do you have three boobs?”

I think that for all of these years with kids I believed that eventually, through no true effort of my own, my body would just return to its previous appearance. I can assure you (as if you needed me to) that this will not happen. My muffin top has started completing tasks. It knocks things off tables, it turns things on and off, it accidentally dips into whatever liquid is at stomach level. It broke a glass once. It’s basically a pesky child, all on its own. It has its own freaking agenda, and it’s a whole other thing about being a mom that I need to accept.

Years ago one of my friends had a tummy tuck and I judged the living shit out of her. There. I said it. I just didn’t get it! And now friends, I do. I get it so hard. This is it. This is my body. I can lose weight, nurse until I die, and firm things up if I want, but this is how my midsection will look forever. ForEVER. And it just occurred to me. Like, recently. Because I am really, really slow. So now, after all these years, I am back to low-self-esteem Sarah. And it sucks. Fashion has changed for me (something I greatly value), my confidence is wavering, and, truth be told, I don’t feel attractive.

But I’ve been here before, and I’ve made it through. So, back to affirmations, and white light. Back to being a dirty hippie who wears deodorant, because it’s polite. (Hey! A rhyme!) Back to believing I’m beautiful, just the way I am.

And maybe, just maybe, in the meantime, someone will create a magic pill that eradicates muffin tops for all.

Like this:

This is a little embarrassing to admit, which should give you an idea of how serious it is, since I rarely feel embarrassed by anything. But here it is. You be the judge.

I’m scared of submarines. Not the sandwiches, you do-do, the vessels. It is a strange fear, I know. Especially since I live in the desert, and there is little risk of me ever strolling down the street and running into one, but last I checked, fear isn’t usually rational. Right? Right? And just to lay it all out on the table for you, I’m actually terrified of submarines. It’s not that they make me a little uncomfortable, it’s more like if one appears on the screen in a film (because let’s face it, that’s the only way I am going to be seeing a submarine. Right? Right?), I have to leave. And my heart races, and I feel very much like I may vomit up a lung. It’s your classic anxiety.

I’ve had this fear for years. Recently, the kids discovered it, and now refer to submarines as “boatmarines” instead, which is so very, very kind of them. But even Luca seems dismayed, and has asked me why. “Why are you afraid of sub– I mean boatmarines, Mama?” I honestly don’t know how to answer him. I’m not a fearful person (Oh! Except I hate it when people touch me with their feet! Don’t ever do that.), and I would hate to think that I may be a bad example for my boys, but for the love of all things holy, fear has crept in. And now, it goes beyond my old fear of submarines. Now it’s something else.

I’ve been flying since I was a baby. I’m told that I was put on the floor—where you now stow your purse or backpack—and sent hurtling through the sky towards . . . well, I’m not really sure where I was going. I was a baby. And then of course, in the eighties, my parents’ divorce sent me once again hurtling through the sky, as an unaccompanied minor, from one state to another. We did that a lot, my sister and I, and I remember it fondly. It felt both ridiculously silly (or maybe I was just ridiculously silly, with freedom) and risky, which as a teenager, was awesome. Then of course we had the trip to France thrown in there. So, you see…lots of flying. And never once did I panic about it.

Until now.

Here are some brief details from our most recent trip to New York:

1. Flew out of Phoenix at 6 am, after spending a horrible, sleepless night in a hotel where we woke up at 2:45 instead of 3:45 because some asshole changed the clock.

2. Overpacked.

3. Talked a lot about how we always over pack.

4. Talked about how next time we should not pack so much.

5. Rearranged the luggage, 3 times.

6. Left 2 hours late out of Phoenix with too much luggage.

7. Were assured we would have no trouble with our connection in Chicago, since all flights were delayed.

(This whole trip was so riddled with travel issues that I can’t even begin to write about them all.)

While we were in the sky, headed to Chicago, I realized that I no longer like to fly. Actually, that isn’t right. My heart no longer likes to fly. Well, that and my head, and my central nervous system, and I suppose my endocrine system, since I sweat like a pig from the stress and anxiety I feel as I’m flying. It’s so very . . . odd. My body has taken my desire to travel completely hostage! AH! Hostages! Add fear of being taken hostage to the whole thing! Dear SIPNEL! I don’t ever want to become a hostage!

Alas, I am a hostage to my overwhelming fear, which brings a great shitball of irony to the whole mix.

Shitballs! Great! Another thing to fear! ARGH!

What is mystifying to me is the complete inability to control the fear that I feel. It’s overwhelming, both physically and emotionally. And it has greatly intensified since I had my children, because how on earth am I supposed to explain to them, as we plummet toward earth, why I thought it was a good idea to strap them into a metal death machine that is shooting through the sky at top speed?
Usually, while flying, I reach a point where I just sort of accept that, yep, I’m going to die. The plane is going to plunge and smash into the earth and I will burn up and be, well, dead. That’s just all there is to it. Once I accept that, I actually calm down a bit and make it through the flight. It’s completely ridiculous, right?

I hate that I fear anything. I want to be completely fearless in my life! The truth is, I’m just not. I genuinely don’t want to get hit by a submarine. Totes. And I really, really don’t want to be set on fire, ever. I certainly (clearly) don’t want to go down in a plane, and I would rather not be hit in the face, ever. I would prefer you never touch me with your feet. And I’d rather not find another (yes, another) band-aid in my soup. I’d like to get through life unattacked. I would love to never, ever have to see a clown hiding in a cupboard or other dark, gloomy space. But mostly? I would rather just be totally, and completely fearless.

Share this:

Like this:

Resolutions are weird. In fact, I think they’re sorta dumb, but at the same time, fun. Mostly because I can put them in a list, and I really, really like lists. The average person seems to have one, maybe two resolutions on their list, typically featuring weight-loss goals, insane physical-feat goals, and the occasional sobriety goal. For me, since I have no real desire to lose weight, will never run a motherfucking marathon, and have no problem with alcohol, I feel like my resolutions are realistic, and less annoying. Which is funny, because one of my resolutions (or just, you know, goals) is to be less annoying than usual. So, by simply making a less annoying list than, say, you, I have succeeded at one of my resolution/goals, which henceforth will be called: reso-goal.

Here is my “Incomplete Because Some things Aren’t Any Of Your Business” reso-goal list:

See a Pearl Jam concert with my cousin Matt, who prefers to be called “Overlord.”

Moisturize so I look less loose. I’m assuming moisture has special powers.

Read more.

Watch less.

Stop telling embarrassing things to strangers.

Listen more.

Be less annoying.

Be more awesome.

Stop calling the boys “chicken” as a term of endearment. Eventually, it’s going to confuse them.

Stop pointing out how cute I am to people, as it may hurt their feelings.

Try to not turn every single thing into an annoying song, therefore being less annoying.

Look into girdles.

Buy a new bra. One that makes my boobs look less sad and dejected.

Stop burning/bruising/cutting myself. This could also fall under:

Slow the fuck down.

See some ladies that I love for an entire weekend of debauchery and purging.

Find a way to dominate the world with my blog.

Learn how to edit my writing, so the time between writing and posting is shorter. Much, much, much shorter.

So, there you have it. My reso-goal list. Realistic! Attainable! And requiring absolutely nothing from my quads, hamstrings or abs. Some of them, I think, are self explanatory. For example, “read more.” Needs little explanation, eh? Except of course, for the few of you that know me well and are thinking, “don’t you read, like, four books a week?” to which I must sadly admit, no. No, I don’t. I fondly remember the time when I did, but the children, as I am sure I’ve mentioned before, have eaten my brain, and thus, I read maybe one book in a two-week period.

The body stuff is pretty obvious. I mean, look at me! I look like a pale, tired, melting Italian.

I should also turn down the vanity, which I use as a way to deflect my true feelings of self. Clearly. Although, at times, I really do look in the mirror and think, “Who’s adorable? YOU ARE!”

Watch less. Now here’s the one that is hard to discuss, because it requires me to admit that, at times, I have been known to watch shows like Prison Wives or The First 48. I think about the why behind this, and what I’ve managed to come up with is simply that I don’t have the mental capacity for much. I’m a busy girl, doing a million things, and thinking all the time about these million things. Rarely do I get a chance during the day to zone out, and so, when I do get that chance, I don’t want to watch something I have to pay super-close attention to. So, I watch crap. And that is why I want to watch less.

Go ahead and commence your mocking.

Really, the two things I would love to do this year that require a little travel and expense are the ones I’m most excited about. I’m planning my second Woman’s Retreat in Sedona this year and I would tell you all about it, but then I would have to ask you to sign a waiver.

The other requires some information. See, my cousin—er . . . Overlord—is a fan of Pearl Jam. Well, let me rephrase that . . . my cousin fuckingloves Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam is to my cousin as the Pope is to millions of Catholics. It’s been this way for more than half of my life, and his too, of course. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that, when Matt was in his late teens, early twenties, Pearl Jam was his life raft, and Eddie Vedder was quite possibly one of the best male role models for him at that time. I’ve always known this, and if you know my cousin even a little, you probably know it too, but last night John and I watched the Pearl Jam documentary, Pearl Jam 20, and it all makes sense. Not that it didn’t before, just that now it makes more specific sense. So, there. Now I HAVE to see a show with him. I would see it by myself, but it would be way less awesome, so, Overlord? Get ready.

One thing that isn’t on my list that maybe sort of should be is to eat less pudding. But I love pudding. And if I stop eating what I love, I will become a bitter, sad, and angry woman. And since that would probably cause wrinkles, and I have already decided to moisturize more so I get fewer wrinkles, I consider pudding to be a kind of preventative medicine.

It’s the first post of the new year, all and I didn’t say the word vagina at all! May your year be full of satisfaction and understanding, and may the reso-goals you make for yourself be realistic and attainable, thereby cutting down on any self loathing that would occur if you don’t reach them.